


Serpentine

by SadakoTetsuwan



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Gen, Interrogation, McHanzo Reverse Bang 2018, Naga Hanzo, Necromancer Moira, Reverse Big Bang Challenge, Van Helsing McCree, Witch Angela "Mercy" Ziegler, delicious magical science, illegal magical creature part smuggling, illegal magical experiments, implied past reaper76, mentions of gore, or at least an interesting one, the start of a beautiful relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 18:29:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15735006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SadakoTetsuwan/pseuds/SadakoTetsuwan
Summary: The Overwatch Guild is one of the most famed groups of warriors, mages, scientists and sorcerers in the world, fighting to preserve the balances of the planes: magic and technology, old and new, natural and supernatural.For months, the guild has been tracking down Talon, a well-financed ring of illegal magical creature parts smugglers and dealers who have been poaching endangered and recognized sentient creatures for sale to unscrupulous mages around the world. But in a major bust lead by Jesse McCree, one of Overwatch's premier Hunters, they're about to find more than they bargained for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this short fic for the art by the _incredible_ [sukuiddo](http://sukuiddo.tumblr.com/)!

The warehouse was objectively disgusting.

The sun had beat down on the roof of the corrugated metal building all day, a few window AC units struggling in the lingering heat. A few areas were separated by hanging tarps and limp plastic sheeting, swaying slightly in what tiny currents managed to kick up inside and doing nothing to stop the _smell_. It was beyond just the metallic scent of human blood or the sickly sweet smell of certain spell components mixed with shorted out electrical equipment. There was little that could be done by even the best apothecaries to mask the smell of cockatrice dung, let alone this shithole.

Cheap metal shelves were stacked with illegal creature parts and products—intact faerie wings in sealed test tubes labeled for individual sale, with damaged wings in a pile next to a laboratory-grade auto mortar grinder and a pile of filler to cut the product with; powdered vampire blood, a powerful hallucinogen, but almost impossible to turn into a crystalline form without dangerous levels of silver salts in the mixture; unicorn horns, most with hunks of fur and bone still attached to the base; werewolf pelts—or at least something labeled ‘werewolf pelts’ as they seemed unusually small, with the proportions leaning heavily toward the ‘actual wolf’ end.

Several industrial coolers were hooked up to long jerry-rigged lengths of extension cord, keeping hunks of meat and more delicate organs on ice; a dragon’s fire bladder sat aside in its own tank, kept at an acceptable temperature by a liquid nitrogen pump. Just that storage system was an investment of several thousand dollars on Talon’s part…

And in between it all, bodies covered in tarps. Overwatch was more than a mere hunter’s guild—crime scene investigation and analysis was _technically_ part of the job, but not exactly the specialty of anyone on the spear tip of a strike team. The best McCree could do was make sure it was ready for Winston when he arrived to document and begin his analysis of the scene.

Of course, what he _wanted_ to do was shoot every last one of these traffickers and dump their bodies in the desert. Everything they’d found in this warehouse was from an endangered, protected or verified sentient species—how many creatures had been slaughtered, how many _people_ killed? How much lost knowledge and experience was represented in just that dragon’s fire bladder? The vampire blood?

‘When you feel nothing anymore, it’s time to quit.’ Commander Amari’s words echoed in his mind, and he shook his head to clear it. Nobody ever quit. He took a draw from his cigar and contemplated the flask in his pocket—bodies gave out long before spirits in Overwatch.

“McCree!”

He glanced up, catching sight of Pharah—she didn’t even look at his cigar. Must be his lucky day; usually she’d scold him for contaminating the scene or something along those lines.

“Whatcha got?”

“Something hidden in the office,” she explained, waving him over to the other side of the warehouse. The ‘office’ was more of a large cubicle with temporary walls, supported by filing cabinets and corrugated cardboard file boxes with obnoxious faux wood grain patterns that never fooled anyone. How very 1970s.

The office chair had been knocked back and the thick plastic chair mat had been pulled up to reveal a hatch of some sort. Angela was crouched over it, doing her best to dispel whatever wards and sealing spells held it shut.

“We got any idea what’s down there?” McCree asked, glancing between the two women.

“Not yet,” Pharah replied. “But the chair was already overturned when we knocked down the door.”

“The wards are fresh,” Angela confirmed, “Someone is hiding down here, and I think we _all_ want to see a little justice done today,” she said, holding her voice as steady as she could.

“Alright, ‘Reeha, you let Commander Morrison know ‘bout all these files.”

“Already done,” Pharah said, “Who do you take me for?” she added with a smirk.

“I’ll bet Athena’s gonna have her hands full analyzing all of these. It’s gotta be records of who they sold to, who supplies them, the works. Even if we can’t get the bastard down there, we at least got _somethin’_ here today,” McCree said.

“Presto!” Angela cried, hopping up from her place on the floor and lifting the well-oiled hatch door.

“I’ll head down first,” McCree said, drawing his revolver. “‘Reeha, you follow me, Angela, you bring up the rear—hopefully there ain’t nothin’ nasty waiting for us down there, but if there’s anybody I want watchin’ my back, it’s y’all.” His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, but his tone was sincere enough.

The hall below the hatch should have been dark. There was no obvious source of illumination, no shadows, yet the path was clearly visible. Magical illumination was a hell of a thing.

“Keep yer eyes peeled,” McCree whispered, narrowing his gaze as they slowly approached a door; there was obvious activity on the other side, but it was too muffled to make anything out.

Well, no time like the present. McCree took a half step back before kicking the door in, his revolver the first thing in the room.

“Achtung!” Angela cried, throwing herself past McCree and catching a sickly purple orb with a cry.

“Angie!” Pharah called, pulling Angela back from the fray and looking at her hand in horror—it was quickly beginning to age and wither, the joints growing gnarled and the skin papery.

“Well well, look who’s come calling,” a husky voice called, “Morrison’s little soldiers.”

“And look at you, Moira,” Angela hissed, glaring up at the tall, lanky scientist-sorcereress, “Ever an unethical crone.” It was far from her first encounter with Dr. O'Deorain; the field of scientist mages was flourishing, but certain names were known in every lab and coven, for better or worse. O'Deorain's work in the study of death magic and necromancy was as feared as it was precise--and those who actually replicated her results confirmed her accuracy only in the most hushed whispers.

“You wound me,” Moira replied sardonically, her gaze sliding over the intruders. “I suppose you aren’t here to solicit my skills?”

“Dr. O’Deorain, you are hereby bound by law and compelled to return with us under penalty of death,” Pharah snapped, rising to her full height.

“That’s all any of you have to say to me, isn’t it?” Moira sighed, ignoring the irate woman before her. “Threats of violence to disguise your fear—fear of the unknown, fear of that which you could not hope to comprehend. Well,” she paused, raising a brow with a smirk. “She could.” Moira gestured toward Angela, who was quickly returning her hand to its previous healthy state.

“Thank you for the compliment,” Angela muttered, glaring as she rose to her feet as well and adjusted her grip on her staff.

“You could have been great, you know, if we’d continued our work.”

Angela bristled at the remark, her lips pursing as tightly as they could. “ _Our_ work? What you were doing was barbaric. I will _never_ compromise my principles!” she snapped, puffing up like a threatened bluebird.

“Oh, I know,” Moira teased, “That’s why I find it _so_ much easier not to have any.”

“Not that this ain’t a thrilling bit of after dinner raconteuring or nothin’, but it’s gettin’ real damn tiring listening to you. _Doctor_ ,” McCree added with a sneer. “You gonna come quietly, or do we have to do this the messy way?” he asked, cocking the hammer on his pistol.

“I think you in particular would be disappointed without a good scrap,” Moira smirked, a sickly miasma forming at her fingertips.

“It ain’t a scrap we want—just justice,” he growled, his eye catching the light in an unnatural way, drawing it in, sucking the life from the room. Moira faltered—only for a moment.

“Oho, that’s some fine spellwork…from a _soldier,_ ” she added.

“Jesse, we’re taking her alive,” Pharah snapped.

“Are you, now?” she smirked.

It happened in a flash—or rather, a series of flashes. Moira’s hand flew to her belt seeking spell components, no doubt, but McCree’s hand was quicker.

His flashbang arced through the air and burst in front of her eyes, the energy from Moira’s spell crackling as she lost her concentration. Perhaps that was what knocked her back at first—but it was the blast from Pharah’s wrist rocket that blasted her into the wall. The force of the impact shattered the flimsy drywall, dust and debris crumbling all around the thin frame of Dr. O’Deorain.

“Verdammt,” Angela huffed, “I wish I’d had a spell to contribute there.”

“I’ll let you do the honors of binding her, at least,” Pharah smirked, marching over to the sorceress’s crumpled form.

“Y’all get to work on that,” McCree said, “I’m gonna see what she was so desperate to protect down here.” His eye flared again, drawing, searching…

There were souls down here, alright…hundreds. These bastards…

McCree stepped through the hole in the drywall, his gun drawn and his nerves on edge. This whole place made him sick, the death and torment…he’d dealt with devils and demons, but when man was a worse monster than beings of literal incarnate evil, it was a bad day at the office. An unpredictable day…a day for judgment and justice.

He could practically taste the powerful magic in the air, some sort of ward. Not unlike the binding spells Angela was putting on Moira at that very moment. What on earth could be so important?

As McCree stepped into the chamber at the end of the corridor, he found his answer.

Chained and bound with a circle was a magnificent naga, his dark eyes flashing and his fangs bared. His scales shimmered in the poor lighting—his shed skin was probably upstairs somewhere—and his powerful tail was bound to the floor with iron. His wrists were strung up in the air, and a heavy enchanted collar hung around his neck, the gem sealing it closed burning with the power of a thousand souls. That enchantment was probably a good portion of what was keeping him from speaking his typical wisdom; instead, this naga was spitting in rage, struggling against his bonds, acting more like a beast than a being. McCree could see several lacerations across his chest—some healed over, some fresh and still trying to bleed. That probably had something to do with it, as well.

“Hail,” McCree offered, holstering his pistol and raising his hands in a gesture of peace and respect. “My name is Jesse McCree, I’m with the Overwatch Guild. My people and I are here to rescue you—”

“Rrrrreleassssse,” the naga snarled, straining and struggling in place.

“You got it,” McCree nodded, heading back to the entrance to the corridor. “Angela! I’m gonna need a hand down here—got some wards need undoin’!”

“I’m on my way!” she called back, her slim figure appearing as she trotted down the hall. “My gods!” she cried as she emerged into the room, her eyes widening.

“He’s been injured—we need to get him back to treat him.”

“How on earth are we going to transport him?” Angela asked, carefully circling the parameter of the ward, “He’s going to take up all of the room on the ship.”

“We’ll make it work somehow. But we sure as hell can’t leave him here in the desert,” McCree said, watching as the glowing circle on the floor began to break apart, the power of the spell burning up and turning to ash on the ground. As soon as the circle was down, McCree surged forward and began wrenching the bonds from the floor, his metal hand crushing the iron in barely concealed rage.

“I can’t remove this collar,” Angela said with a frown, “The spellwork won’t even let me touch it.”

“Damnit—guess we’ll have to leave it for now,” McCree said, his heart aching as he watched such a majestic being claw futilely at the collar around his neck. No intelligent being should be collared like that—an especially egregious insult to a being as proud as a naga. “Don’t you fret now, we’ll get that taken care of,” he soothed.

“Angela to shuttle, clear a space in the cargo bay—we are transporting an adult naga in need of a full physical evaluation,” Angela explained, casting a healing spell to ease the ache in the naga’s wrists.

“Roger,” Tracer replied over the radio, though her tone was a little more uncertain than usual—nagas were heavy, and they were challenging passengers even for a pilot of her skill.

“What’s your name?” McCree asked, stepping over the naga’s tail.

“Hhhhhhanzoooo,” he rasped, his forked tongue lolling clumsily in his mouth.

“He must be pretty heavily sedated,” McCree remarked, frowning at Hanzo’s slurred speech.

“I’ll be able to do a more thorough assessment from the base,” Angela said, keeping her eyes on the frustrated wounds on Hanzo’s chest, the spellwork holding the blood back like a clear bandage. “Pharah is already transporting our prisoner via portal—we won’t have any unwelcome company on the flight back.”

“Good—wouldn’t have been averse to feeding the good doctor to our friend here,” McCree remarked, hurrying ahead to kick a bit more drywall out of the way. After everything he had evidently been through as a vivisection subject in Dr. O’Deorain’s twisted lab, Hanzo deserved to have at least an easy time slithering down the hall.

Hanzo…hm, that was an unusual name for a naga. Nagas typically had grand names with a dozen epithets; ‘Hanzo’ was shockingly humble.

‘A question for another day,’ he told himself, ‘Prying won’t make him feel any better. For now, let’s just get him treated and back to 100%.’

* * *

Wrestling a naga onto the shuttlecraft was a daunting challenge. Certainly, getting him out of that hole wasn’t much fun either, but Hanzo had seemed quite thankful to be out in the open air again. But convincing him to go back into a cramped space was like pulling teeth. Coil upon indigo coil was stacked clumsily into the cargo space, with McCree stuffed awkwardly against the cargo bay wall, scowling as he watched Angela settle into the passenger seat next to Tracer.

“Keep him hydrated back there,” Angela called, feeding magical energy into the engine to speed their journey along.

“I hear ya,” McCree called, “And tell Morrison what we’re bringing back, y’hear?” he added, digging a bottle of water out of the emergency rations and passing it to Hanzo. “Here, drink up,” he said, his tone considerably softer. “Wanna get your strength back as quick as we can,” McCree added.

Hanzo said nothing, but accepted the water and clumsily drank, sputtering slightly as he drained the bottle. A being as large as him would surely need more…Angela and the other healers would have their work cut out for them, making sure they could keep that much mass healthy. McCree dug up a second and third bottle, which were drained just as quickly.

“Thank you,” Hanzo rasped after a moment, slumping forward against his thick coils in exhaustion, the chain dangling from his collar jangling with the movement and earning a growl.

“Don’t worry, we’ll get that damn thing off just as soon as we’re able,” McCree said, resting his metal hand against Hanzo’s shoulder. He felt the naga tense, but he was too exhausted to flinch or fight. “We’ll get you back in shape, then send you back home, no trouble.”

“Home,” Hanzo murmured, “Cannot…go home…” He swallowed dryly, struggling with the effort. “Un…wanted.”

Oh. That wasn’t the right thing to say at all.

“I’m sorry, pardner,” McCree soothed, “Then I tell you what, I’ll do my level best to get you taken care of, however you need, alright?” He may have been a battle-hardened Hunter, but he would be a damn liar if he said his heart wasn’t still tender underneath.

“…Too kind,” Hanzo rasped, folding his arms and resting his head against them. With how muscular he was, McCree couldn’t imagine they made particularly comfortable pillows.


	2. Chapter 2

If getting Hanzo into the transport was a challenge, getting him into the medical wing was an odyssey. Though he’d only had a few bottles of water and a short rest, it was apparently enough to get the naga back into fighting shape, and as soon as the sterile scent of rubbing alcohol and iodine hit his nose, Hanzo reared back as high as the hallway would allow, the space suddenly filled with angry snake.

His heavy tail thrashed and knocked a gurney aside like it was made of toothpicks, and the snarl that left him was more beast than being—McCree hated it, seeing how damaged someone could become at the hands of a monster.

“Hanzo—Hanzo!” he called, his hands raised in a calming gesture, “It’s alright, we’re tryin’ to help you!”

“Easy now, big guy,” Lucio soothed, carefully adjusting the music he was playing, hoping to land on a beat that would soothe the naga, “We can do our initial exam here in the hall, it’s all good.”

“Please relax,” Angela said; ordinarily, her voice would have been almost lost in the din, but the magic she had worked into her words cut through the chaos; the gentle music and calming spellwork slowed Hanzo’s thrashing and steadied his pulse, his wounds no longer straining against the healing spells placed on them. “We are here to help, just like Jesse said.”

“I’ll grab the portable kits,” Lucio said, skating backwards down the hall toward the exam room, the music fading as the door swung shut behind him.

“Can you lie down for me, Hanzo? There is a lot of you to assess for damage,” Angela smiled, carefully guiding Hanzo down to something closer to eye level. Hanzo shuffled his body somewhat awkwardly as he tried to lay out straight on the floor, his tail stretching many meters behind him.

“I’ll just…go see about getting him some food,” McCree said, feeling somewhat out of his element in the medical wing. His specialty was _causing_ damage, after all, not healing it.

“Don’t bother with anything small,” Angela remarked, “He’ll need something like a whole side of beef or pork.”

“Alright, I hear ya,” McCree nodded, kneeling down and squeezing Hanzo’s shoulder lightly. “Which do you want, Hanzo?” he asked, offering him a smile.

“…Beef,” Hanzo murmured, exhaustion overtaking him again.

“I’ll see what I can scare up,” McCree nodded, giving his shoulder another little reassuring squeeze before rising, his leather chaps creaking with the motion. “Angela, you make sure you take real good care of him, alright?” he murmured. He wasn’t ashamed to show his lingering tenderness—not to Angela.

“I always do,” she smiled, kneeling next to the naga and opening her travel kit.

* * *

“Dr. Moira O’Deorain,” Commander Morrison growled, his arms crossed, “I thought we’d seen the last of you after Venice.”

“I cannot say I am surprised that you, of all people, thought wrong about something, Jack,” she smirked, sitting proudly among the warded chains that bound her to her seat.

Morrison sighed. Same old pompous Moira.

“I also thought you weren’t a monster,” he said, picking up the official Overwatch Guild file for this bust—the only crisp, fresh folder on top of the stacks and boxes of recovered folders and hard drives and crystals which still held a trace of the spellwork they’d been a part of, all taken from the warehouse.

“I am not,” Moira scoffed. “Ants cannot comprehend the complexity and ability of man, just as man cannot comprehend gods in all their splendor.”

“Calling yourself a god now, are you?” It was Morrison’s turn to scoff.

“Compared to your ilk,” she huffed. “You all fear what you do not understand—that is what sets my kind apart from yours. Scientists, sorcerers—we _revel_ in the unknown, we _thrive_ on mystery and uncertainty, we reach boldly forward to grasp—”

“Cut the bullshit,” Morrison snapped, “We had to listen to your condescending garbage the entire time you were with the guild—Reyes might have let you ramble to keep you happy, but I’m not Reyes.”

“That’s for sure,” Moira muttered. “Reyes had the spirit of a scientist.”

“ _Gabriel was desperate!_ ” Morrison snapped, “He let you get away with everything because you promised him the moon, and what did it get him in the end?”

“He’s not dead, is he?” she smirked.

* * *

“Hey, Hanzo,” McCree called softly, strolling into the base’s courtyard. Hanzo was far too large a patient to take a room in the medical wing, and nagas were earth spirits—quartering him outside seemed like the most logical solution.

“McCree?” Hanzo called back, his torso rising from among his indigo coils.

“Hey now, when it’s just us, you can call me Jesse,” McCree smiled, stopping a few feet away. He wasn’t sure where personal space started when it came to such a large creature, but caution seemed prudent.

“Very well, Jesse. I have not had the opportunity to thank you for rescuing me. My thanks for getting me out of that dungeon,” Hanzo said, bowing at the ‘waist’ to McCree.

“Jes’ doing my job,” McCree smiled sheepishly, taking another step closer. “I was just glad we got you out of there alive,” he continued, “We were too late for a lot of them…”

“That woman,” Hanzo growled, “She is a menace. A devil…”

“No, I’ve dealt with devils. She’s something far worse—human,” McCree said, sighing.

“She took me—put this collar…” Hanzo said, his words dropping away as if something were squeezing them into nothingness. McCree’s eyes widened, and he climbed closer again, hefting himself over scaly coils.

“It’s binding your tongue,” he gasped, “Can you speak?”

“Not…about it,” Hanzo said, his tongue sluggish in his mouth as he answered McCree.

“That’s some good spellwork,” McCree whispered, “Damn, why’d she have to be so clever?”

“Not… supposed to…” Hanzo gasped, struggling around his words.

“Easy now, pardner,” McCree said, his voice smooth and low, “You take your time, just breathe, okay? Here, let me get you something to drink.”

Hanzo shuffled his coils and rose, slithering over to what looked like a rain bucket from back home and lowering himself to drink, grasping the sides of the barrel as he gulped down mouthful after mouthful. A naga needed plenty of food and water, McCree supposed, but watching Hanzo eat and drink was such an awkward affair. He couldn’t imagine the proud nagas wining and dining like this…was it Hanzo’s injuries?

“Jesse?”

McCree’s gaze shot up at Angela’s call, a brow rising.

“I thought I might find you out here,” she smiled, gesturing for him to come closer.

“Whatcha got?” McCree asked, strolling over as casually as he could while still keeping an eye on Hanzo—he didn’t know how much that damn collar might actually be choking him, after all.

“I haven’t given you a check-up since we got back from that…place,” Angela said, leading back inside.

“Aw, I’m doing just fine, Angela,” McCree said, “Anything that needs fixing, I can ask Lucio to look at, can’t I?”

“It’s not that,” Angela said as soon as the door to the courtyard slid shut behind them. “It’s about Hanzo.” McCree’s expression grew grave.

“What about him?”

* * *

“Violence,” Moira spat a mouthful of blood on the floor, “Is very unbecoming of such an esteemed guild.”

“You suddenly get concerned with Overwatch again when it comes to your face, huh?” Morrison asked, flexing his fingers, “Pity you can’t find that concern for anyone else.”

“You don’t know the first thing about it,” Moira growled, her gaze narrowed. “The work I’m doing will revolutionize magic and technology—it will change _everything_ , Morrison.”

“But you have to work with Talon to do it?”

“Talon,” she scoffed, “They’re bigger fools than you, if you can believe it. They have more money than sense.”

“So you’re taking them for a ride, on top of it all?” Morrison asked, raising a brow, “Scamming is beneath you, and that’s saying something.”

“Oh no,” she smirked, “I’m not scamming anyone. My work speaks for itself. Talon has the vision, but not the brains to reach that vision. That’s where I come in.”

“And what, I ask out of sheer morbid curiosity, _is_ that vision?”

“ _Permanence_ ,” Moira whispered, with more than a touch of dramatic flair.

* * *

“I’ve been examining every inch of him, and believe me, there are plenty,” Angela said, hurrying McCree down the hallway to her lab, “And no matter what test I run, I get mixed results. At first blush, he is a naga through and through—but when I drew his blood, the test results were inconclusive,” she explained. “It is as if it transformed between being drawn and being tested. Even the color seems to change as I bring it from his arm into the lab.”

“What the hell?” McCree muttered, looking at the blood in the test tubes labeled ‘Hanzo’; naga blood was as red as any human’s blood, but he trusted Angela knew what tests to run to differentiate.

“Jesse, I know Moira is a monster, but what I don’t know is what it is that she is trying to achieve,” Angela whispered, as if Moira would hear from the depths of the interrogation rooms.

“Is she transfusing human blood into magical creatures? Tryin’ to make naga blood out of human blood? Sounds like the sort of get-rich-quick scheme Talon might have found appealing,” McCree mused.

“No, that’s far too base,” Angela said, “She wouldn’t be so proud of something so crude, so…‘cut and paste’ she would say.” Angela crossed her arms and tapped her finger against her lip, pondering the possibilities.

“That collar he’s wearing,” McCree began, pondering as well, “It’s binding his tongue—keeping him from telling us what she did to him… All he was able to say was that she took him and put that damn thing on him, and then his words just died.”

“Please, Jesse,” Angela said, “Go back to him—he doesn’t trust doctors, after what that witch did to him,” she said, bitterness in her voice. “Try to help him for me, will you? Anything you can to get that damned collar off, so he can speak.”

“You got it, Doc,” McCree said, heading to the door without hesitation.

* * *

“What do you mean by ‘permanence’?” Morrison asked, his face creasing.

“Exactly what I said. Making spells previously thought impossible, possible. To make increasing transmogrifications permanent,” Moira said, pride in her voice.

“Not possible,” Morrison said, “That really _is_ in the realm of the gods. That sort of magic isn’t possible for mortals to cast.”

“So you think,” Moira scoffed, “But you would be wrong. I’ve nearly perfected the technique for making magical transmogrifications across the same size and boy type permanent—I can permanently transform an ordinary horse into a unicorn or a pegasus with a 78% success rate.”

“You call that ‘nearly perfected’?” Morrison asked, “That’s barely a C plus rate—not so great for your report card.”

“It’s 100% better than what my employers did before—simply gluing a horn to the head of a horse and sprinkling a little gold dust into the blood, or hunting endangered magical species,” she shot back.

“What an environmentalist,” Morrison scoffed.

“But I,” she continued, “I can make the mundane mystical at rates never before imagined. With a little more time, I should approach the standard 95% success rate expected for a spell cast with perfect concentration in ideal conditions.”

“Great, I’ll be sure to pass your numbers along to the board,” Morrison muttered.

“Better yet, I’ve been able to permanently transform diminutive beasts into much larger forms. I’ve made elephants from mice, crocodiles from anoles—with flawless execution. My name will already be in grimoires for the rest of time,” she smirked. “But as I’m sure you know, I wouldn’t be satisfied to stop halfway on either of these spells. What your lot so rudely interrupted was my finest achievement to date; permanent magical increase transmogrification,” she said, emphasizing each individual word.

* * *

“Hanzo?” McCree called, listening to the rasp of scales in the courtyard, “Hanzo, you doing okay?”

“Yes,” he replied, though he looked somewhat ashen-faced.

“You don’t look so good,” McCree remarked, carefully stepping over Hanzo’s tail.

“I am…feeling less than optimal,” Hanzo replied. “Even given my current situation,” he added with a grumble.

“Yeah, I hear ya,” McCree nodded. “Doc asked me to look after you, y’know—on account of I don’t care much for needles myself,” he smiled. Hanzo let out a weak chuckle but otherwise didn’t respond, draping his torso over his indigo tail.

“Hey,” McCree continued, settling down on the cool ground next to him, “We’re tryin’ to figure out what sick experiments she was running—I know that collar’s gonna keep you from telling us, but we’ve gotta figure something out. Can you write?”

“This,” Hanzo said, gesturing to his neck, “ _This_ ,” he hissed.

“Is it bothering you?” McCree asked, his metal hand clinking against it softly.

Huh, that was strange. Angela had said she hadn’t even been able to touch it—

“It is…drain…” Hanzo struggled, his words withering on his forked tongue.

* * *

“That’s simply _not possible_ ,” Angela insisted, her focus torn between Morrison and the sorceress on the other side of the one-way glass, although the view wasn’t particularly good through her video monitor. “There is a reason why only deities and demigods can make such a transformation permanent—the sheer amount of magical energy needed is beyond what any mortal being can generate.”

“Regardless, she seems confident in her ‘findings’,” Morrison said. “You know her better than any of us…if anyone was able to do it, do you think it would be her?”

“…No one else would be blasphemous enough to try,” Angela whispered, watching Moira though the glass in mixed horror and awe. Could she, in all her audacity, have stolen knowledge from the gods? Did she unlock some well of power reserved for their use? Angela turned on her heel in her lab and appeared outside the interrogation room in a flash, shoving the door open.

“How?” she spat, stomping over to Moira and glaring down at her, “ _How?_ ”

“I knew you couldn’t resist,” Moira smirked, “The mind of a scientist, through and through.”

“Where are you getting the magical energy to sustain such transformations? _How are you doing this?_ ”

“Oh dear Angela, it’s from the one place you won’t go—those pesky morals of yours prevent you from seeing the bigger picture,” Moira said, haughty as ever in her chains.

“You are in no position to lecture me,” Angela glared, “No more riddles—you will tell me now where you are getting the power to sustain a permanent magical transformation, and you will tell me what you have been doing to that poor being in my care!”

“Has the cat caught his tongue?” Moira simpered. “No matter, it’s merely a testament to my spellcraft—a little addition to the work I did on the collar. I didn’t want any of the beings I worked with to go blabbing, spreading the secret to my success…but since it’s you, Angela,” she continued, smirking. “You’re right—no one mortal can generate the magical power needed to sustain such a transformation. It needs power feeding in continuously to maintain the effect, and attempting to do so from your own magical pool would consume your soul—burn it out empowering the spell, down to the last dregs, destroying it utterly. So where is there an almost infinite source of souls—ones that no one would miss?”

Angela’s eyes widened in horror as Moira explained, the sorceress’s pleased expression a twisted reflection of her own.

“You were always so squeamish where necromancy was concerned, Angela,” Moira scoffed, “I’m surprised you even give the time of day to that cowboy—you know what he is.”

“I know what he is,” Angela agreed, “And he is nothing like you,” she spat.

“Come off it, Angela, quit pretending killing is any better than un-killing,” Moira huffed.

“You’re not undoing death, you’re, you’re—” Angela sputtered, finally turning away in rage and disgust, slamming the door behind her. “Jack, I want you to throw her in the deepest, darkest dungeon we have and let her _rot!_ ” Angela snarled, rushing toward the door.

“Wait, Doc, where are you going?” Morrison asked, leaving out the implied ‘on foot’.

“I have to get back to my patient—that transformation spell might kill him if we can’t get it undone!” she cried.

* * *

“It’s draining? Is that what you’re trying to say, it’s draining your energy?” McCree asked, urgency entering his tone.

Hanzo moved his lips wordlessly before nodding, his breath labored.

“Alright, hang on doll, let me see,” McCree said, his eye focusing, drawing in light, energy, _power—_

The collar itself glowed like a coal with power, almost as brightly as the tattoo on Hanzo’s arm, drawing light from his arm, absorbing it as flakes and shards of light from the light in Hanzo’s chest—his soul—were drawn in as well. It was as he said, the jewel locking the collar shut was draining his soul away, siphoning its power from him, slowly devouring him.

“Shit!” McCree hissed, working the fingers of his metal hand beneath the collar, feeling it tighten magically around him. “Hang on, Hanzo, I’ll get this thing off,” he said, his tone rising as he pushed power through his fist, trying to wrench the collar free.

The lock vibrated with rage in his hand, resisting his power. The metal of the collar grew hotter, he could feel it in the air; McCree was sure it must be burning Hanzo—

‘No, don’t let go,’ he told himself, ‘Focus. Destroy it. Save him—’

McCree growled, his fist tightening around the vibrating gem, the smooth face of the cabochon rattling against the metal of his hand. First there was a low thrum beneath the clatter of the gem, the fire of the spell soon beginning to squeal like a tea kettle as McCree’s hand closed tighter. The sound was ear-splitting, roaring in his fist—

McCree could feel the stone crack, and the squealing ceased. He focused, blinking down at the fractured stone holding the collar closed, the spells inside it dead. McCree shook the collar loose from around Hanzo’s neck, examining the ruins of the artifact that Moira has crafted.

“You alright, Hanzo?” he asked, throwing the collar across the courtyard before turning back to the naga.

Only there was no naga.

Standing where the being had sat only moments before was a man—handsome, strong, slightly bewildered. Legs aside, the man was clearly the same being. The angry wound was still on his chest, blood beneath the magical mending, his long black hair and proud cheekbones had not changed, his aquiline nose still utterly perfect…

“Hanzo?” McCree asked softly, his eyes widening.

“Yes,” Hanzo replied, his own falling to his own legs—both present and accounted for, both strong, all ten toes wiggling. Hanzo sank to the ground, his hands running reverently over his own legs. Relieved laughter left him as he tested his ankles, rolling them to and fro.

“Are you…” McCree started, unsure of how to continue. ‘Are you human?’ seemed a touch rude. “Are you alright?”

“I think I shall be,” Hanzo said, his hands resting protectively on his knees as if they might disappear again. “Thank you…thank you for everything,” Hanzo breathed.

“Don’t mention it,” McCree smiled, sitting next to him. "Jes’ happy to see you back in your usual shape,” McCree said. "I suppose we'll have to come up with something to do with that other side 'o beef I brought back for you," he added with a sheepish grin. Hanzo let out a single chuckle, his body slowly starting to relax back into it's normal form.

The doorway leading out into the courtyard slammed open, startling the men.

“Jesse!” Angela cried, racing outside, “Jesse, we have to get that…collar…off,” she trailed off, her frantic gaze searching for the naga. She hurried over, blinking in momentary confusion at the two men sitting on the ground together.

“Howdy, Ange,” McCree said, waving awkwardly. “I uh, guess we’ve got some explainin’ due now, don’t we?”


End file.
